The Divide

by J. L. Brown

“Thank you,” Whitney said to him. He departed.

  Megan poured coffee into a glass and handed it to Emma before pouring a glass for herself. Whitney gazed at her daughter’s patrician nose, so much like Grayson’s.

  To Megan, Whitney asked, “Do you go to Princeton as well?”

  “I do. I’m a senior. Majoring in social justice.”

  Whitney sipped her wine. “That’s wonderful. How did you two meet?”

  “At the library,” Emma said.

  “At an event,” said Megan, almost at the same time.

  Inclining her head, Whitney asked, “Which was it?”

  The girls shared a glance.

  “It was an event,” Emma said. “At the library,” they finished together.

  “Em and I were working the same event,” Megan clarified.

  Em?

  “I see,” Whitney said.

  Emma said, “Stop ‘I seeing’ us, Mom.”

  “What are you talking about?” Whitney asked.

  “You ‘I see’ when you don’t want to say how you really feel.”

  “I was unaware I did that.”

  “You do.”

  “I see,” Whitney said, smiling, as she rose to retrieve another bottle of white wine from the refrigerator.

  The occasion called for it.

  Megan whispered to Emma, “Your mother’s got jokes.”

  “She can be humorous in her own way,” Emma whispered back.

  When Whitney returned, she said to Emma, “How are your classes?”

  “Fine. I declared my major.”

  “And?”

  A slight lift of Emma’s chin. “Politics.”

  Whitney sighed. “I failed both my children. Where did I go wrong?”

  “I’m not going into politics,” Emma said. “I’m going to be a lawyer.”

  “What kind?”

  “Civil rights.”

  “I see.”

  “Mom! Stop!”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “We’ve been going to a lot of events. Talking to the people. Trying to understand their issues. Their concerns.”

  The people.

  “What are they telling you?” Whitney asked.

  “Things need to change. I want to help them.”

  “I…”—she almost said “see”—“I’m proud of you.” She paused. “Are you staying here tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your room is always ready,” Whitney said.

  Even though Chandler and Emma were in college at the time of Whitney’s inauguration last year, it was important to her that they have their own rooms when they came “home.” Emma’s room was the West Bedroom; Chandler slept in the East Bedroom.

  “Megan may sleep in the Queens’ Bedroom,” Whitney added.

  She savored another sip of wine, her smile hidden behind the glass, while her daughter and her college roommate shared a disconcerting glance.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Washington, DC

  Jade spent the return trip from Seattle reading Veritas’s blog. The topics ranged from free education, the environment, immigration, campaign finance reform, affordable housing, and income inequality.

  While the others slept, she had turned to Max in the seat beside her. “You think he’s good for it?”

  Max shook his head. “He’s too disorganized, for one thing. His tweets are reactive. He doesn’t present sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies. Plus, he has a moral responsibility and a social conscience. I don’t think he’s our man.”

  Over the next week, Pat reported that Veritas hadn’t made any trips via plane or train under his own name in the last year, but his alibis weren’t airtight either. His landlord couldn’t swear he was at home on the nights of the murders. The NSA tracked his phone to the apartment location, which didn’t necessarily prove he was there. With no coworkers to interview, and seemingly no offline friends, they were hoping his computer could provide some answers. The activity on it provided an alibi of sorts. He or someone else had tweeted from his computer at the time of the murders. Other than that, the computer offered nothing helpful.

  As Jade left the sandwich shop across the street, carrying her lunch, Christian ambled toward her. They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk outside FBI HQ.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  She shielded her eyes from the unexpected sunlight. It was supposed to rain today. “Anything new on Hurley?” Dante had left him behind to oversee the Finn Hurley investigation.

  Christian shook his head.

  “How are you and Dante getting along?”

  “He’s not you.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “What are your next steps?” she asked.

  His gaze lifted upward as he prepared an answer. “Watch out!”

  Christian grabbed her in a bear hug and tackled her to the ground as something crashed into the spot where she’d been standing. He lay on top of her, both of them staring at a chunk of concrete and some scattered pieces.

  Shaken but trying not to show it, she said, “You’re heavy.”

  He stood and offered her a hand.

  She looked up at the netting installed to prevent an accident like this from occurring. There was a hole in it.

  It was no secret that the FBI headquarters was falling apart. If the exterior was bad, the inside was worse. For years, agents had waited for Congress to appropriate funds to replace it with a building better suited for the twenty-first century and equipped for the never-ending war on terrorism. Jade had hoped the money appropriated from the infrastructure legislation would pay for construction of a new building, but those hopes were squashed with the repeal of the New New Deal Coalition Act. Her attitude regarding the president’s latest legislative attempt was “wait and see.”

  After they brushed themselves off, she said, “That was close. Thanks.” She told him about hitting her head in Veritas’s apartment.

  “Two times in one week,” he said. “You might want to be more careful.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Washington, DC

  Dev sat on a stool at the counter by the window, eating a turkey sandwich with cucumbers and sprouts and pretending to read the Washington Post. The proprietor was pounding a slab of meat at the back of the establishment. A young man, who resembled him, stood behind the register.

  The door chimed as another customer entered.

  Dev chanced a glance at Jade Harrington, who waited in line to place her order.

  Tall. Striking. Intense. Confident. A formidable opponent.

  Something stirred in Dev, a feeling unlike the competitive juices that flowed within her before a game. Before a kill.

  The heralded FBI agent took in her surroundings. Dev averted her eyes by gazing out the window at the pedestrian traffic on Ninth Street. Nevertheless, Dev sensed the other woman’s eyes lingering on the back of her head for a moment before moving on. When next Dev stole another glimpse of Harrington, the agent was placing her order.

  Dev was in DC on a reconnaissance mission to study this FBI agent who hunted her. She knew of Harrington, of course, but had never met her.

  Never worked with her.

  Dev had just witnessed the blond agent, who looked like a linebacker, save Harrington from being hit by the concrete debris.

  How ironic it would have been if the building in which the agent worked had dispatched Dev’s nemesis for her.

  Dev waited for the two agents to enter the employees’ entrance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation before exiting the shop. She headed in the opposite direction toward Federal Triangle Station.

  She had a plane to catch.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Washington, DC

  “I’m responsible for helping you try new things. Otherwise you’d eat the same thing every night.”

  Jade couldn’t disagree with Zoe there. She chewed her spiced grilled chicken, savoring the different flavors. “Good ca
ll.”

  The two friends shared a late dinner at a bistro table for two, enjoying a variety of tapas. In addition to the chicken, they’d ordered the special written in trendy lettering on the sandwich board outside the front door: sautéed shrimp, patatas bravas, and roasted sweet corn. The Spanish restaurant was a new one in Logan Circle, a neighborhood just north of downtown.

  “Qué pasa?” Zoe said.

  “Not much. You?”

  An unusual shadow crossed Zoe’s angular face. “‘Enough’ didn’t pass.”

  “Enough” was the legislation aimed at drastically reducing gun violence in the United States. Last year, a lone white male gunman—it was usually a lone white male gunman—had mowed down over one hundred and fifty elementary school children playing outside at recess. Enclosed in a fenced yard, the kids had offered him a human shooting gallery.

  Zoe lowered her head. “I thought we had the votes this time.”

  “Memories are short,” Jade said.

  “Mine is long,” Zoe said. “I can’t forget about those kids. I don’t want them to die in vain.”

  Jade remembered the images from the news: the young man and his vacant countenance, teachers and students scrambling for cover, teachers transforming themselves into human shields to protect their students. Most of the carnage was captured on the school’s video surveillance system. A female teacher ended up tackling the gunman, saving an untold number of children’s lives. Her heroism was rewarded with the loss of her own.

  “It’ll pass someday,” Jade said. “Mass shootings won’t cease on their own.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fabulous to go to a movie theater or a concert or a school and not worry about getting shot?”

  “Or a shopping mall.”

  Zoe cocked her head. “When was the last time you were in a mall?”

  “Theoretically,” Jade conceded.

  “Remember when mass shootings occurred only at post offices?”

  “They called it ‘going postal,’” Jade said. Impulsively, she grabbed Zoe’s hand and stared into her eyes. “You’re on the right side of history on this, my friend. Don’t give up.”

  She squeezed and let go. Zoe raised her hand to her heart and bowed her head in thanks. “I can’t wait ‘to provide new guards for their future security.’”

  Not entirely sure what Zoe meant, Jade said, “We will.”

  The two friends ate in silence for a moment.

  “Talked to Kyle lately?” Zoe said, her eyes narrowing, ready to scrutinize every nuance of Jade’s response.

  “No. The case is over.”

  “It’s over? No one’s been charged.”

  “That’s true. Even so, there’s no reason for me to talk to Kyle.”

  Zoe bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling.

  Was that relief?

  “You haven’t heard,” she said.

  Jade sipped her sangria. “Heard what?”

  “Kyle is seeing someone.”

  Swallowing with difficulty, Jade said, “Huh.”

  “They’re engaged,” Zoe said, still staring at Jade.

  “Huh,” Jade said again.

  “Aren’t you curious who it is?”

  Jade popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Not really.”

  “It’s Brittney Summers.”

  Jade didn’t react outwardly, but she forcibly swallowed the shrimp and carefully placed her fork, tines down, on her plate.

  Summers played in the WNBA, a point guard with the Seattle Storm, and was a former All-American at the University of Connecticut. Although Jade was a few years older, they had played against each other in AAU, college, and the pros. The rivalry was intense. They didn’t hate each other, exactly, but they wouldn’t hang out together after a game either.

  Zoe searched her face. “Say something.”

  Jade picked up her glass again. “Good for them.”

  After dinner, Zoe left on her motorcycle, and Jade sauntered toward her car parked on a side street. She stopped on the sidewalk by a man sitting in front of Le Diplomat on Fourteenth Street. He appeared homeless.

  “Do you got any money? I’m hungry.”

  She glanced at the expensive French restaurant, the scene epitomizing the American divide. Jade handed the man her leftovers. “It doesn’t compare to the food in there, but it’s pretty good.”

  He stared into her eyes. “Thank you, Chosen One.”

  She started at the reminder of what her father used to say to her. A phrase from the Bible. The Gospel of Matthew.

  Later, as she drove across the Memorial Bridge, she listened to the eighties station on SiriusXM and softly sang the words to most of the songs, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.

  As the snow fell, she tried not to think of Kyle with someone else.

  Jade didn’t enjoy driving in the snow in DC. The transplants from New York and Boston drove too fast, to prove it wasn’t a big deal. DC natives couldn’t drive in the snow at all. And everyone else was caught in the middle. Fortunately, there weren’t many cars on the bridge.

  “It’s Raining Men” came on.

  Perfect.

  She remembered the barista at the coffee shop singing it at the top of his lungs, oblivious to Kyle and Jade sitting at a table, his only audience.

  She hadn’t talked to Kyle since her surprise appearance at Jade’s team celebration for closing the Robin Hood case. Kyle had been in DC on business. They hadn’t talked much that night, and Kyle left the next day to fly home to Seattle.

  Jade missed their conversations, a light sparring between two strong women. But Jade couldn’t offer Kyle anything more. That was the problem.

  Jade’s life was here. With the FBI. With her team. With the victims and their families, who depended on her to seek justice for them. To find out the truth. Kyle’s life was in Seattle. With her business. Her professional basketball team. Her political influencers. And so Kyle had moved on.

  With Summers.

  As Jade steered the car carefully over the bridge into Virginia, she changed the radio station to classical music.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Don’t mince words.”

  “It’s bad,” said Dr. Hayley Copeland, Whitney’s chief economic advisor.

  “Perhaps mince a little bit,” Whitney said.

  Copeland’s face remained stoic. “Since the Sino-Russian trade agreement went into effect, our exports have fallen one percent, which might not sound like a lot…”

  “But…”

  “It equates to a hundred and thirty-eight billion dollars in lost revenue for US companies.”

  Hayley sat in a chair pulled up next to the Resolute desk in the Oval Office. Hayley and Whitney had met in college, at Northwestern University. Whitney had gone on to Harvard Law School while Hayley remained in Chicago, attaining a PhD in economics from the University of Chicago and then becoming a tenured professor. Whitney convinced her former classmate to leave academia and join the administration. Smart and attractive, Hayley knew her stuff, but the frustration of dealing with the negative effects of the trade agreement was evident on her middle-aged face.

  “Which countries?” Whitney asked.

  “Exports are down with all our trading partners, but the major ones have been hit the hardest: UK, Germany, France. Even our buddies to the north.”

  “Canada,” Whitney said, disappointed.

  “Canadians aren’t any different from the rest. They don’t care that their goods are made in China, as long as they’re cheap.”

  “Options?”

  “Companies will decrease prices. Promote more heavily. It’ll be a downward spiral to the bottom. Not sure there’s much we—the government—can do. Maybe talk to China again?”

  Whitney shook her head. Min had made it clear that avenue was closed. “What about New Cubed?”

  “We won’t realize any significant benefits for a few months,” Hayley added. “So the situation is ba
d but hopeful.”

  “Bad but hopeful. Have you found someone to replace Grayson yet?”

  Hayley handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of candidates—”

  Sasha knocked and entered without an invitation, looking drained.

  Whitney stood, knowing immediately that something was very, very wrong. “Sasha?”

  “I need to speak with you,” her chief of staff said. “Privately.”

  Whitney’s eyes didn’t leave Sasha’s. “Hayley?”

  Sasha’s eyes followed the economic advisor until the door closed behind her. She stood in front of Whitney’s desk. The two women stared at each other.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s CJ Brennan,” Sasha said.

  “What happened?” Whitney asked. “Was he beaten up again?”

  “No,” said Sasha, sorrow in her brown eyes. “He committed suicide last night.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Kensington, Maryland

  Jade attended a lot of funerals, usually for the victims of the serial killers she chased.

  CJ Brennan was a victim of a different sort. Bullied most of his short life, first because of his dad and then because he was gay, pretty, and could sing.

  And he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.

  Depression was a silent, lonely, and relentless killer. No one was immune from its tentacles’ reach. No matter how beautiful or rich or famous you were.

  Ever since he’d come out last year on a liberal cable news program, despite or because of his conservative father, CJ had become a mini-celebrity. He spoke out about gay and trans rights. His looks and his father’s occupation proved a tantalizing combination for social media and the television talk-show circuit.

  He’d also become a target for cruelty.

  CJ’s family sat on chairs set up in a row. The rest of the gathering stood behind them, Jade off to the side. She smelled the fresh flowers on top of the casket. Cole cried, unashamed, just as he had when Jade entered the church that morning.

  The small Presbyterian church near the White House had been packed with a who’s who of US politics and media. Cole Brennan, sitting in the front pew, stared at the large portrait of CJ next to the casket, the young man’s hair blond and long. Jade touched Cole’s arm, and he slowly turned. When he saw her, his face crumpled. Jade tried to take his hand. Instead, he stepped out into the aisle between the pews and wrapped her in a bear hug, which was oddly comforting for her.